


All is well

by Freshwaterbears



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-05
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2020-01-05 08:49:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18362660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Freshwaterbears/pseuds/Freshwaterbears
Summary: Mary is dead and John Watson wants nothing to do with Sherlock, or so Sherlock thinks.





	1. The letter

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, here’s my second work, ever. My English isn’t as great as I want it to be and I’m trying to improve it by writing angst about our favourites. Please leave comments and constructive criticism. Thanks.

It’s all an euphoric glow before his eyes. All is well. 

A glow. 

It seems so familiar. 

Like a star. 

Although he deleted most knowledge regarding astronomy, this is something else that he knows by heart. 

It’s John. 

Of course it’s fucking John, it has always been John Watson. He’s the one that keeps Sherlock right. 

Sherlock smiles at the thought. 

With half-closed eyes, he glances at the needles littered around the hardwood floor of his flat and then promptly pulls down his gown sleeve before leaning back against the edge of his chair. 

It’s hours later before Sherlock regains consciousness due to the constant vibrations of his mobile. 

 

13 texts and 5 missed calls from Lestrade. 

1 missed call from Mycroft. 

 

Sherlock slowly blinks at the mobile and cuts his finger on the cracked screen whilst trying to swipe at it to clear the notifications. 

He can’t remember why or how he broke it. Must’ve been in a drug addled state and drunken stupor. Can’t really remember the last time he was completely sober. Or mentally stable. 

It’s currently 11:58pm and Sherlock feels abysmal. He’s run out of his usual stash and doesn’t feel like clawing through his floorboard for his secret stash. 

Feeling particularly parched as well, he reaches over to pick up tea that Ms. Hudson has left for him, tea that’s long gone cold. 

He drains the cup and feels more emotionally drained than he did before drinking the cold tea. 

Tapping beats onto his thigh, Sherlock reaches with his other hand into his gown pocket to retrieve a neatly folded letter. 

Contents of which he is completely familiar with. To the point of memorisation, of course. 

It’s from John. 

Always. 

Anyways, He reads it over again because although he’s obviously memorized the letter and every curve of John’s handiwork, the impact of seeing a physical copy hurts him greater than each permanent scar lashed onto his back. 

It is a pain that he deserves. 

A pain that can not amount to the pain that he has caused John. 

He thinks back to the memories that he shared with Mary and John. 

Mary was a great woman. She had her faults and problems of the past, but she was a far greater person than Sherlock could ever amount to be. 

At least in John’s eyes. 

She gave her life for him.  
What a despicable choice because it is utterly idiotic to put value on something that is absolutely worthless. 

But, it still changes everything. 

He can’t die. 

Well...

Socially speaking, he shouldn’t kill himself because Mary gave him a second shot at life when she took the bullet for him. 

But, when has he ever followed social cues?

He never did, not until he met John Watson and learned more about being a nicer person. 

John Watson isn’t here anymore, he thinks. Finally got tired of having you around. Ruining his life in more ways than one. Idiot. He’s suffering and you’re here being an idiot. Idiot. Idiot. 

Sherlock continues mentally berating himself and simultaneously contemplating whether or not he should head out to find his usual dealer. 

He decides that the latter will settle his mind quite nicely. 

Replacing his dressing gown with a large hooded sweatshirt, Sherlock trudges down the steps of 221B and opens the door for the first time in months. 

He also does not bring his mobile because Mycroft is an insufferable prat. 

Chips. 

He’s feeling particularly suicidal today. Chips are allowed, right?

It’s hard to tell the amount of time that passes in between the purchase of chips and the road to his dealer. 

Who cares. 

Sherlock certainly does not give a single fuck, at this point. 

He purchases his favourite combination. 

 

Heroin and Cocaine. 

 

Bloody fantastic, he thinks. 

It’s difficult to keep track of time, but it is the early stages of dawn when Sherlock stumbles back up the steps of his flat. 

He wastes no time in wrapping a tourniquet around his arm and administering the right amount of solution into his system. 

All is well. 

Euphoria is back and gone are the miseries and sleepless nights that linger from his years away. Gone is John’s hatred for him. 

In with the golden light and fonder memories. 

His star. 

The brightest of all constellations. 

The one that keeps everything right. 

And then cosmic darkness. 

 

Sherlock awakens once again and this time there is a figure sitting across from him. 

Insufferable prat. 

Mycroft. 

 

“Terrible travels, I hope?” Sherlock grumbles. 

“Peace treaty missions always take a toll, especially when one is constantly worrying over the wellbeing of ones own brother.“ 

Mycroft flicks his gaze over Sherlock’s crumpled form, taking in every detail and scar littered on his forearms. 

His eyes squint for a millisecond, as if coming to one conclusion. 

“How’s John?”

Sherlock’s dilated pupils flick over to Mycroft’s and then leave without acknowledgement. 

“Shouldn’t you know?” Sherlock asks in an accusing tone. 

“After all, big brother is always watching.”  
He looks up again. 

Mycroft tilts his head to the left and tightly smiles. 

“Hasn’t this gone on long enough?”

Mycroft flexes his fingers on the handle of his umbrella. 

“John is probably waiti-“

“What John wants has been stripped away from his life” Sherlock sneers and stands up with anger and adrenaline as energy. 

“And it is all my fault.” He continues. 

Nonchalantly, Mycroft watches his brother unfold and chooses his words wisely. 

“John could probably use some help, you know, since he currently has no help for his little spawn.” 

He continues. 

“Why don’t you just throw yourself back into his life? You’ve been doing it for ages. It wouldn’t kill you to do it once again. “

A cold breeze whispers through the cracked window and Sherlock pulls out his packet of cigarettes. 

He lights one, taking a long drag out of it before responding slowly. 

“John has made it absolutely clear that he wants nothing to do with me. He’d... He’d rather have anyone, but me. “

Upon the last word, Sherlock makes eye contact and Mycroft finally sees a crack in the walls that his baby brother had put up in order to protect himself. 

A tool of self protection that was ingrained at a very young age. 

Far too young. 

Mycroft knows that it is he who had made Sherlock this way. 

Mycroft learned too late that being alone does not actually protect anyone. 

Loneliness is the problem in and of itself. 

Mycroft continues watching his brother smoke one cigarette after another in silence. 

The whole flat is quiet. This would have been nice in another circumstance and another time, Mycroft thinks. It’s all too damaged now. He can continue watching his brother from afar and collecting lists from a non coherent Sherlock, but anything else will not be accepted and it is difficult to know whether any of this is repairable. 

If Sherlock is repairable. 

“Myc?” Sherlock finally breaks the silence in a tone that is reminiscent of a young and vulnerable Sherlock. 

“Yes, brother mine?” 

“I want to be alone, now. Please.”

Grasping his umbrella tightly, Mycroft gets up to leave. 

“Whatever you wish, but do leave me a list. Brother.” He nods and makes his way down the steps. 

The door closes and it acts as the switch to Sherlock’s emotions. As if the click of the door is what opens the dams of his eyes and releases a steady stream of tears down his face. 

He’s silent at first and then reaches a hand up to feel the salty tears streaming down, as if just coming to realization that it is not raining in his flat. 

Sherlock drops his hand and his face crumples, releasing all his pent up emotions that he was never able to express upon coming back to civilization. 

He cries and wails loudly, not caring if anyone can hear him. 

He cries and hunches over the mantel as if it is the only thing that keeps him from falling and falling. 

The fall. 

Sherlock shuts his eyes tightly and slowly crouches down and folding into himself against the sides of the fireplace. 

He’s tired. 

No feelings of sadness or anger or even turmoil. 

Sherlock just feels tired. 

And numb.


	2. Bathroom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh here’s the next chapter. Honestly didn’t think anyone would care to read this. It was originally a tool for the improvement of my English skills. TRIGGER WARNING (self-harm). As always, comments and constructive criticism is always welcomed.

Dry. 

His mouth feels dry and gravelly. 

He’s probably dehydrated. 

Fuck. 

Again, he has no clue what year, month, or day it is, nonetheless the time. 

Recently, it seems as though Sherlock does not know much of anything. 

Idiot. He thinks to himself. Just a bloody idiot. 

He used to be accustomed to using the term idiot to describe the mundane people that he encounters; now he uses it in a completely different context. 

Himself. 

It takes a while for his eyes to adjust to the lighting and his surroundings. When he does, he attempts to pull himself up off the ground and breaks a few of his nails in the process. 

Although he’s already slept for god knows how long, he continues to feel drained and quite frankly disgusting. 

As a man who usually shaves twice a day and essentially lives in bespoke suits, he has now lost all motivation to even shower. 

Sherlock concludes that he will do it anyways because he can’t remember the last time he actually groomed himself and he can only go for so long before it bothers him too much. And now is far better than later because time doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing matters. 

Except for John. 

He also decides to do this in the event of “accidentally” overdosing and accidentally “committing” suicide, at least he’d look and smell less like a dead corpse when someone finally finds him. 

If anyone will even remember to check on him. 

It’s a saddening thought. 

Being forgotten.

Sherlock understands that the universe does not revolve around him, but he remembers a time when he did matter to someone. 

That was a very long time ago. 

He knows precisely how long it’s been. 

 

Too long. 

Sherlock sighs and realizes that he’s close to having a panic attack. 

No time for that. 

He’s got to shower. 

Using various pieces of furniture as support, he manoeuvres his way over to the bathroom that’s connected to his room. It takes far longer than it really should and he can’t believe it, but he feels even more drained after this activity. 

“Fuck” he exclaims to no one, but himself. 

The bathroom light flickers on and Sherlock focuses his eyes on the man standing right in front of him. 

A gaunt, pale, malnourished individual with long matted hair that’s stuck to his forehead. 

A disgusting individual, really. 

Can’t even call him a person.

He’s unworthy of that label, Sherlock thinks. 

Unworthy of love. 

Of friendship. 

Or even touch. 

A machine 

A cold blooded, vile, broken machine. 

Sherlock continues to study this man and the man studies him right back. 

What an absolute waste of space, he thinks to himself. 

He squints his eyes at the cowering form. 

“You’re nothing.” He says to the man. 

“All you’ve done is hurt and hurt and hurt.”

The man looks away. 

“Fucking look at you.” “Disgusting in every way possible.” 

“Can’t even face me.” “Can’t even face the truth that you’re not loveable.” 

“Even John hates you.” Sherlock sneers. 

Having enough of this degenerate of a person, Sherlock takes a deep breath and loses all self control, so he punches the man over and over. 

“You’re a fucking freak!”

“You’ve never been anything else, other than an idiot!”

He continues beating the man. 

“I hate you so much.” Sherlock whispers. 

The man has long disappeared and what’s left is a very broken mirror and remaining slivers that reflect Sherlock’s tear stained face and red eyes looking back at him. 

He hears a dripping sound and looks down to see his bloodied knuckles that are steadily staining the linoleum floors. 

Sherlock sighs for the millionth time. 

“Fuck.” He whispers. 

Turning to flick on the shower, Sherlock sheds his filthy clothes and they pile onto the floor. 

He steps under the warm stream and rests his forehead onto the tiled wall. 

He closes his eyes. 

“Why?” He asks. 

Sherlock isn’t even sure what he’s trying to ask, but he just felt that it needed to be said. 

Opening his eyes, he sees the water swirling around the drain, water that’s turned pink from his bloodied knuckles. 

He needs to take care of that. 

Later. 

He’s got the rest of his life. 

Who knows how long that will be. 

Sherlock promptly cleans himself up and wraps himself in a large towel. 

He grabs his shaving kit and looks for a larger piece of mirror that remains on the frame. 

He shaves, obviously.

One last stroke and then he’s cleanly shaven for the first time in a very long time. 

Twirling the shaving blade in his hand, Sherlock looks down and lightly presses his thumb against the blade. 

Maybe just one try. 

He slowly lays the blade onto his left wrist and presses down before dragging. 

Pulling away, he sees an expected result. 

Beads of blood that slowly seep together. 

Few more can’t hurt. 

Few dozen more can’t hurt. 

Sherlock drops the blade and he feels...great. 

If you can even call it that. 

It’s a bloody mess, but he finally looks the way he feels on the inside. 

He smiles at the destruction and he beauty that comes with it. 

Fucking postmodernism at its best.   
This is it. 

This. Is. It. 

Leaning forwards and resting his elbows on the ledge of the sink, Sherlock hunches over and screams. 

He screams and then he stops. 

White noise. 

He hears the pipes crank. 

And then nothing.  
———————————————

White noise. 

Sterile sheets. 

Fuck. 

He really didn’t really know what to expect because he wasn’t planning on dying, but at the same time, he’d rather be dead than to be here in the bloody E.R. 

At least he showered. 

Fuck. 

Sherlock takes in a deep breath and then it hits him. 

A distinct aftershave. 

Insufferable prat. 

Mycroft. 

His eyes shoot open and at the same time he sharply turns his head to the right. 

And there he is, the bloody queen in her plastic throne. 

Mycroft looks back, his usual smirk replaced with a look of empathy and sadness reflected in his eyes. 

“Sorry, brother mine.” Sherlock croaks.   
“No note this time.”

Mycroft’s lips press together in a thin, tight lipped smile. 

“This is a new low, even for you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock turns his head back to gaze at the ceiling. 

It’s a brightness that he’s never used to. 

It’s the opposite of comfort, despite what it’s supposed to convey. 

It’s cold, analytical, and bleak. 

Just like how he used to be. 

He prefers a different sort of brightness. It is one that he can not possess. 

And although it is impossible to own someone, he can’t even have him within his grasp. Sherlock doesn’t even mind pining from afar. 

He’s been doing it since the beginning of their failed friendship. 

Being personally invited out of the life of the one you love is what the end of the world feels like. 

And for Sherlock, the end is the one thing that he can possess. 

So he hangs on to it. 

Because it’s the last thing that’s given to him from the one he loves. 

Hatred. 

John’s hatred. 

It hurts him, but at the same time it soothes him like a balm over his wounds. 

It’s always John Watson. 

He will always love John Watson.   
(Sherlock is actually a girls name.)

Sherlock closes his eyes.


	3. Paradise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings again (drug use and attempted suicide). Hope you’re all well. I’ve been putting off studying for writing this chapter. Still steadily working on my English skills, so feel free to comment and give constructive criticism as always.

“Don’t tell John.”

“Please, he cant know that any of this has happened or else he’ll blame himself.”

Sherlock grips the 1000 thread count sheet that’s loosely wrapped around his body. 

Mycroft, who sits across from Sherlock, crosses his legs and sighs at the sight of Sherlock’s prominent ribs that are the result of malnutrition and heavy drug use. 

“Sherlock, it’s been two months since you’ve left the E.R and since then, you’ve attempted to commit suicide three times in my home.”

“If anything, John needs to know...”  
“And at this point, I’m sure anyone would blame him for putting you in this depressed state that you’re in.”

Sherlock huffs in exasperation and lays down onto the couch in fetal position. 

He crinkles his nose before responding. 

“Firstly, I’m not in a depressed state, I’m just in a bout of... self-exploration.”  
“Secondly, no one can possibly make me do anything.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. 

“Self-exploration.”  
“Is that what they call it nowadays?”  
“And of course no one can make you do anything...”  
“No one except for John.” He corrects. 

At that, Sherlock makes no comment and instead rolls around to ignore his brother. 

And maybe Mycroft is right. Perhaps John has something to do with the way Sherlock has been feeling recently. 

Which is utter shit, if anyone’s wondering. 

It has something to do with John, but John is not the one to blame. 

John’s not the one that injects the 7% solution into Sherlock’s system, neither is he the one who applies the blade to his wrist. 

John doesn’t even know. 

He doesn’t. 

And Sherlock isn’t too sure whether that’s a good or bad thing.

He’s never sure anymore. 

And that scares him as well. 

Everything scares him. 

His emotions scare him. 

The fact that he loves John Watson with all of his heart is what scares him the most. 

It isn’t even about the fact that he’s gay. Sherlock has acknowledged long ago that women clearly weren’t his area. 

It also isn’t about John’s sexuality because Sherlock has also worked out early on that John is bisexual. 

It’s the fact that John is capable of loving men, but chooses not to love Sherlock. 

Now that’s the rub. 

No matter that, John is safe and surviving. 

That’s all that matters.

John is all that matters. 

He’s made sure that he would protect John, no matter what. 

Sherlock would risk his life over and over just to protect John. 

Now that John wants Sherlock completely out of his life, Sherlock thinks that it’s for the best if he really does leave John alone permanently. He realizes that the real danger towards John is himself. 

It’s fine. 

John is alright and he will eventually be much better. 

Better off without him. 

Sherlock is merely hanging on. 

Hanging. 

That wouldn’t be too bad, if he really thinks about it. 

Although It’s a bit too tedious and not practical at all for the cleanup afterwards. 

Maybe a stroll across the bridge and then “accidentally” falling into the Thames. 

Now that could be a plan. 

It could happen anytime and no one would give it a second glance. 

The retrieval would depend on the competency of the Scotland Yard, so he shouldn’t have to worry about that. 

Great. 

Sherlock had previously signed a waiver to have his corpse be used for science, but it could still happen after he’s found. 

He knows that death by drowning is in no way peaceful nor beautiful, as many films would make it seem. Sherlock knows that it is one of the most painful things that one can endure, so he plans to overdose on drugs first and then swan dive into his death, so that he would essentially be sedated until whatever it is that kills him first. In time, the effects would be fatal, but less painful. 

Should he write a note?

Maybe it would be better if he did. 

Makes more sense to explain his “boredom” in life that eventually causes him to commit suicide, but that’s not even the truth. 

Truth is that he loves a man named John Watson and no matter what he tries to get rid of these feelings, Sherlock still loves him. 

And he will continue to love him, even when he plans to fall into the Thames because John is his conductor of light. 

His hypothetical star. 

John is everything to Sherlock. 

Sherlock loves John. 

He loves him and that’s the only thing that feels real to him at this point in his life. 

He can’t escape this feeling. 

He’s not even sure if he wants to. 

But, he knows he has to. 

The only way to make everything right. 

The fall. 

It’s not just falling. 

To him this will be the final interlude. 

This time, he’s gonna fly and the destination will be very permanent. 

Sherlock laughs at this. 

He turns around to see if Mycroft is still there. 

He isn’t. 

It also seems as though it’s past midnight. 

Sherlock estimates that it’s been 3.7 hours since his last conversation with his brother. 

At this time, Mycroft is probably fast asleep and will wake up quite early to make it to his office in the morning. 

It’s time, Sherlock thinks. 

He writes a couple of letters dedicated to the people closest to him. 

He writes the truth because lies won’t matter when he’s dead. They deserve to know why this all happened. 

And they’ll all move on. 

They always do. 

Glancing around Mycroft’s living room once more, Sherlock sets the letters down onto the coffee table and grabs his coat before quietly slipping into the night. 

He flips through his wallet and spends it all on equal parts cocaine and heroin. Sherlock is able to administer the product into his system and he feels even better. 

He mentally checks this off of the list of things to do and he nods to himself. 

It’s difficult to coordinate his steps, but he eventually stumbles his way to a bridge above the Thames. 

It’s quite cold and Sherlock has trouble focusing his eyes on what’s closer and what’s farther from him. 

He attempts to haul himself over the railing and is successful in this task. 

Any last words?

“Fuck, no.” He laughs. 

“Let’s just get this over with.” 

His left foot steps forward. 

He closes his eyes. 

He imagines John and smiles at the image. 

It’s everything he’s ever wanted. 

He goes to move his right leg. 

“I love you, Joh-”

“What the fuck!” A familiar voice says. 

Doped up on drugs, Sherlock must’ve missed the sounds of a car passing and coming to stop abruptly. 

It shocks him and he let’s go, expecting to fall and crash into the waves below, but there’s tightness on his forearm and he realizes that Lestrade is gripping onto him. 

Greg. 

Time seems to stop for Sherlock, but he senses another body that helps pull him over the railing and onto the pavement. 

Everything feels slow and muffled. 

It’s becoming increasingly difficult to focus and Sherlock can barely piece together the words “ambulance”, “brother” and “overdose”. 

Sherlock feels tears leaking through his eyes. 

“Please.” He whimpers. 

“Please, just let me leave this time.”

“I didn’t mean any of this.”

“I didn’t mean to love him.”

“I just don’t want to feel anymore.”

“Pleas-”

Sherlock sees slow flashing lights arriving and it all bleeds together in a beautiful harmony. 

Everything stops.   
——————————-

It’s all white. 

Has it finally happened?

Has it finally worked?

Everything’s bright. 

Sherlock opens his eyes and he sees John. 

This is paradise, Sherlock thinks and he lazily smiles up at John. 

John looks back at him, but there’s no smile. 

There’s a frown. 

What kind of afterlife is this? Sherlock thinks. 

Shouldn’t all his fantasies come true?

If so, then why does John look so upset. 

Imaginary John should be showering him in hugs and kisses. 

Instead he’s here sitting in a plastic chair with disheveled hair and furrowed brows adorned by heavy eye bags. 

Fuck. 

This wasn’t supposed to happen. 

Sherlock is still alive. 

Idiot. 

He can’t even kill himself right. 

“Stop.” John says. 

“Stop it right now, whatever you’re thinking.”

Sherlock slowly blinks at John and waits for whatever John’s about to say to him. 

“You were really going to do this to me again?”

John unconsciously clenches and unclenches his fist. 

“Put me through all of that again?”

“Hm?”

“It’s a shame that I’m done with your games, Sherlock.”

“I’ll admit that this one’s quite believable, so I applaud you and Mycroft for including cctv footage.”

John smiles, but it’s sinister and doesn’t reach his eyes. 

“And that letter that you wrote.”

“How dare you pretend and use the word love.”

“How dare you try to loop me back into your life after what you did.”

“How dare you, Sherlock.”

“You have no idea what it’s like to love someone so much, just to lose them.”

“Using this... You’re an absolute machine.”

At that, Sherlock flinches and John notices this subtle shift. 

Throughout John’s speech, Sherlock does not make a sound. He simply lays still and takes in every word that John throws his way. 

“John.” Sherlock starts. 

He’s going to do it.   
He’s going to say the truth because this might be the last chance that he gets at speaking to John. 

“If I was planning on faking my death again, then why are you here looking at a disgustingly failed attempt?”

“I mean, come on, if I’m so clever then why do I keep failing at this task of killing myself?”

“Why would I write a suicide letter and then pretend at failing to commit suicide?”

“Come on, Watson, deduce it.”

John furrows his brows. 

“I. I don’t follow.”

Despite the pounding headache, Sherlock pushes himself up from the bed and he feels borderline hysterical. 

“All of this was for you.”  
“Every single thing that put my life in jeopardy was all to protect you.”  
“All of it because I desperately love you that much.”

Sherlock takes in a shuddering breath. 

“I love you so much that I couldn’t bear the fact that you despise me and would rather have anyone, but me.”

“I truly wish that I am the man that you think I am... A machine, because then I wouldn’t have to think about ending my life all the fucking time.”

“I was honestly just trying to do you a favour by permanently removing myself from your life, as you so desperately want.”

“And it is all fine because I hate myself more than you hate me, John.”

“I did and still love you, even if I didn’t want to for your sake.”

With the last word, Sherlock meets John’s gaze and it’s full of pain and sorrow. 

“Sherlock...”

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

Footsteps approach and it’s mixed with the sounds of tapping. 

Brother mine, Sherlock thinks. 

“Dr. Watson, I believe that my brother is quite worn out and would like to rest now.”

The look that Mycroft gives is cold and menacing.   
John can’t help, but feel like the room temperature is decreasing. 

“It would be in everyone’s favour if you left.”

John pushes his chair back roughly, making an irritable noise and stands up while looking at the two men. 

He clenches his fists and nods to himself before marching out of the room. 

Throughout all of this, Sherlock’s eyes have not left John’s, so when John finally leaves, Sherlock is able to take down his facade. 

Mycroft steps over and sits in the unoccupied chair. 

“Have you got a list?” He says in a soothing voice. 

“No, Mycroft.”   
“I can’t remember the dosage.” Sherlock says. 

“I see.”

“You told John.”   
“I told you not to tell John.”

“Well of course I told John.” Mycroft says in exasperation. 

“I didn’t know what to do anymore because my baby brother hates himself so much that he keeps attempting to commit suicide.”  
“I thought that the only way to save you is to find the one who you find solace in.”  
“I did have to pull some strings, but I did get him here to see you.”

Sherlock says nothing. 

“When you’re out of here, then John will be there to listen.”  
“He will because he does miss you.”

“He will also be moving back into Baker Street, if you’re amenable.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen. 

“Of course he’s allowed to move back, it’s his home as well.”

Sherlock can’t hold back a small smile that stretches his lips. 

Mycroft holds Sherlock’s hand and runs circles with his thumb on the palm. 

“Then it’s sorted.”


End file.
